It Started With a Kiss (25 page)

We were all staying in one of the courtyard cottages, converted from the abbey’s former stable block. By the time we were settled in and the kettle was on, Jack, Tom and Sophie had arrived, whooping with delight when they saw our luxurious digs for the next two nights. It was so nice to have Sophie with us – a last-minute surprise from Charlie’s parents who were very fond of Jack’s girlfriend and had insisted the day before that she join us to enjoy the wedding.

‘I can’t believe we get to stay here
and
get paid,’ Jack beamed, flopping into one of the cottage’s generous armchairs and kicking off his shoes. ‘This is what we should be aiming for with every gig, I reckon.’

‘In your dreams,’ Sophie retorted, flinging a cushion at him. ‘You just need gigs, full stop.’

Tom sat cross-legged on the plush rug by the open fireplace. ‘Just think what our accommodation would have been like for the millionaire gig.’

This prompted a volley of cushions, coats, jumpers and one of Jack’s shoes to rain down on him as he yelped.

‘Serves you right for reminding us of the one that got away,’ Wren retorted. ‘At least we have
this
gig and I fully intend to enjoy it.’

Tom harrumphed and nodded in Charlie’s direction. ‘Fine. I bow to your supreme gig-booking abilities, Chas.’

Charlie gave a reverential bow. ‘I am honoured, oh Mighty Axe-Wielder.’ As he lifted back up he caught my eye and winked. The gesture made my stomach flip and the temperature in the room suddenly became stifling. I needed some fresh air – and fast.

Thankfully, Sophie and Wren had already launched into girlish eulogies about the cottage and the grounds, much to the collective amusement of the guys, so I was able to vacate my seat unnoticed. Swinging the heavy oak front door open, I stepped out into the warm early evening sunshine, taking a deep lungful of honeysuckle-scented air as I made my way across the courtyard cobbles to lean against the fence and admire the view across wood-fringed fields with the abbey in the distance, proud as an elder statesman.

An unexpected wave of doubt had blown into my mind for the first time today and I couldn’t pinpoint its cause. Charlie’s odd demeanour was only adding to the swirling mass of conflicting thoughts and I needed space to think.

What was it with Charlie today?
His behaviour had been noticeably different since our pizza-box-attired discussion a few weeks ago. Normally you could rely on Charlie to be the straight man of the outfit when the band was together, acting as a foil to the slapstick humour of Jack and Tom. But recently it was as if somebody had granted him permission to become one of the lads and he had moved himself into the centre of their tomfoolery.

More unusual, however, was his apparent desire to include me in his newfound jokes – whether covertly with a secret wink or overtly by dragging me into them. Driving here this afternoon, he had been trying to wind me up about my stage persona, comparing me to a schmoozy lounge-singer and laughing like a drain when I rose to the bait. Of course, I knew what the problem was: the hiatus in the quest’s progress had given me too much time for obsessing about other things. Charlie, I told myself firmly, was just one of those distractions. It was only a matter of time until the quest picked up momentum again, and then all of these thoughts waltzing around inside my head would be forgotten.

I closed my eyes and pictured PK, as birdsong swelled around me.

Where are you?
I silently pleaded his frozen image in my mind. When I had embarked on this quest, eight and a half months ago, all rosy hope and great expectations, it never occurred to me that I might still be searching for him when autumn arrived. Sure, I had pledged a whole year, but deep down I think I expected to have located him within two or three months, four at the outside.

Given the time that had passed, was it still worth the effort? I hated myself for even asking the question.

‘Penny for ’em?’ Jack’s familiar voice brushed my ear as he leaned on the fence beside me.

‘Oh, nothing. I’m just thinking.’

He drew a sharp intake of breath. ‘You want to watch that, matey. Very dangerous stuff to attempt without the benefit of cakeybuns.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Sophie’s mum sent us one of her fabled Sachertortes. Seriously, it’s one mean chocolate cake. You fancy some?’

That was the best news I had heard all day. ‘How could I refuse?’

We turned to walk back to the cottage, but Jack paused in the courtyard a few feet away from the front door. ‘Rom, I’ve been meaning to say something.’

‘Go ahead.’

He glanced at the cottage. ‘Don’t give up on Charlie.’

My nerves snapped to attention. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Don’t take offence. All I mean is that he’s … working things out at the moment. It’s going to take a while, but he’ll get there in the end.’

I crossed my arms, a chill passing across my shoulders. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

I could see he was battling with something he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – convey at that point. After a few more moments of wrestling, he gave up. ‘Forget it. I’m just being over-protective.’ He drew me into a long hug and I could feel the tension across his back as I returned it. ‘You both mean the world to me. I just don’t want to see either of you unhappy, that’s all.’ Breaking free, it was business as usual for his broad smile. ‘Enough with the slushy stuff. Let’s do cake!’

The following morning was clear-skied and sun-kissed, the perfect early autumn day for Francesca and Owen’s wedding. Most of us were awake early, enjoying a full English breakfast courtesy of Jack, whose early morning vittle-rustling skills are legendary. His years as a scout leader have stood him in excellent stead for this role, and his ability to organise us into a military-style production line is a truly a sight to behold. This morning I had been on egg duty, while Wren  and Sophie and Tom were charged with beans, buttering and toast responsibilities. Meanwhile, Jack kept expert watch over sausages and bacon under the grill. The only exception was Charlie, who had awarded himself a lie-in, although this might have had something to do with the bottles of real ale supplied by Tom and enthusiastically consumed by the pair of them last night …

At nine, joined by a very ruffle-haired Charlie munching a sausage sandwich, we all walked into the beautiful gardens towards the pavilion for our sound check. Florists, caterers and the abbey staff were dressing tables with extravagant centre-pieces of white roses, delphiniums, gardenias, freesias and crisp green apples, laying out elegant gold platters at each place setting and winding yet more fairy lights through white rose and lavender garlands swathed along the front of the top table and draped over white trellis arches over the pavilion entrance. In the middle of all the activity stood Francesca, Charlie’s sister, dressed in a large checked shirt, yoga pants and Ugg boots. Her exquisite wedding hairstyle was already in place, a pearl tiara and miniature white roses dotted through her piled-up dark curls to stunning effect.

‘Morning, lovelies,’ she glowed. ‘How lush is this?’

Sophie, Wren and I took turns to hug her. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I said. ‘And you look amazing, Frankie.’

She laughed. ‘If I had it my way, this is what I’d be wearing today. But I suppose Owen’s shirt and my workout pants don’t really go with the colour scheme. Plus, my mother would have heart failure. It’s taken almost a year to get me in a dress – if I renege now I can kiss goodbye to her good books forever.’

‘You scrub up well, don’t you?’ Charlie said, scooping his sister up in his arms.

‘I suppose I’ll do.’ She cast a critical eye over her brother. ‘Unlike you. Who dragged you through a hedge backwards?’

Charlie grimaced. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be presentable for the ceremony.’

‘Hmm, you’d better be. Otherwise the Wrath of Mum will be upon you.’

I watched as Charlie and Francesca mocked each other, thinking how alike they looked. I have known Frankie almost as long as her brother, and like her immensely. Seeing her in the middle of her wedding day preparations was odd though, not least because she’s two years younger than Charlie and me, but was today embarking on the next great stage of her life. A thought strolled casually across my subconscious: would I ever be in her position? Quickly, I dismissed it. Considering I was currently doing my best not to obsess about the focus of my quest, thinking that far ahead was not a good idea.

‘Charles William Wakeley, what on
earth
do you look like?’ came a voice from the far end of the pavilion, and I turned to see Charlie and Frankie’s mum striding across the floor to join us.

It always amuses me how Charlie reverts to a naughty little five-year-old whenever his mother is around. It’s all incredibly affectionate, of course, but funny nevertheless to see tall, self-assured Charlie blushing and embarrassed. Especially as Glynis stands barely four feet seven inches tall in her stockinged feet.

‘I’ve still got to get ready, don’t worry.’ His shoulders slumped and he thrust his hands in his pockets as Glynis hugged him.

‘I should think so, Charlie-boy. Honestly, Romily, have you ever in all your days met somebody so utterly averse to dressing up?’ She winked at me. ‘Remember his graduation?’

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Mu-u-um …!’

Jack, Sophie and Tom observed our squirming bandmate with unmitigated delight. I’ve known Charlie’s parents for many years and the collected tales we have about him are innumerable.

‘He looked alright in the end,’ I offered, but Glynis was having none of it.

‘It’s only because I managed to find a decent hairbrush. Like a messy woodland creature, wasn’t he? Now I know you can get away with being all nonconformist and
avant garde
at that gallery of your father’s, Charlie, but I need you to be groomed today. Romily, promise me you won’t let him out until he’s halfway decent?’

I nodded as Charlie heaved a sigh of frustration. I don’t know if Glynis and Henry ever harboured hopes that Charlie and I would end up together, but as we stood in the elegant pavilion it was clear that they considered me part of the family – something that both thrilled me and scared me simultaneously.

At two o’clock the ceremony began in the beautiful Glasshouse. White orchids, roses and gardenias were everywhere: spilling over planters, framing the doors and fastened to the end of each row with white and pale gold ribbons. As our services were not required for the ceremony, Wren, Sophie, Jack, Tom and I sat on the bride’s side of the seating, craning our necks to watch the string quartet who were playing a beautiful set of classical wedding favourites: Bach’s
Air on a G string
, Vivaldi’s
Largo
from the Winter Concerto, Debussy’s
Clair de Lune
and the
Minuet
from Boccherini’s String Quintet and another piece that caused a heated debate amongst us.

‘That’s Grieg,’ Tom whispered.

Wren shook her head. ‘No, I’m sure it’s someone like Handel.’

Tom pulled a face. ‘Three years of a music degree and you think I can’t recognise Grieg when I hear him? Soph, you’re the music teacher, what do you think?’

‘Don’t look at me. I thought it was Mendelssohn. I know, I’m officially rubbish. But I’m not on duty today, so my Head will never know.’

Wren wasn’t budging. ‘I tell you, it’s Handel.’

Tom frowned. ‘Fiver says it isn’t.’

‘Done.’ Wren and Tom sealed the bet with a competitive handshake.

Jack coughed and held up his iPhone. ‘Hate to say it, Wren, but the guitarist has it. I just whistled the tune into my music recognition app and it’s confirmed it, look: “
Grieg: Wedding Day At Troldhaugen
”.’ He saw our expressions at this revelation. ‘What? It solved the debate, didn’t it?’

I laughed. ‘You are such a techie loser, Jack.’

‘I am a slave to the creative whims of Mr Jobs, it’s true.’ Jack’s eyes drifted towards the front, where Owen and Charlie were standing joking with guests and miming checking their watches. ‘Man, Charlie looks good today. And I’m saying this as a confirmed heterosexual.’

I had to admit that Jack was right. Charlie had successfully tamed his wild chestnut morning hair and was dressed almost entirely in black, from the collarless shirt and Nehru jacket to his high patent Church’s shoes (of which I knew he would be very proud) – the only exception being the large white rose and orchid flower buttonhole pinned to his chest. Owen, by contrast, was completely in white, a golden yellow rose and a sprig of purple lavender providing a vivid splash of colour across his heart. I shouldn’t have been looking at Charlie, I knew it, but at that moment his eyes met mine and I felt the familiar quiver in the pit of my stomach. Did he see it in my expression? I couldn’t tell.

I was about to avert my gaze when the registrar stood, summoning Charlie’s attention away from me – and suddenly the mood in the Glasshouse changed, relaxed conversation ebbing to anticipatory whispers.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please stand for the arrival of the bride.’

On cue, the string quartet began a reverential rendition of Pachelbel’s
Canon in D
, summoning an unexpected well  of tears that I blinked away. I put it down to the romance of the ceremony – or maybe it was the hope of my quest succeeding that still tugged insistently at my heart like a child pulling its mother’s hand.

The doors to the garden opened and two tiny bridesmaids in white tulle dresses with green and pale gold sashes appeared from the fruit tree maze before us. They were followed by Francesca, who weaved in and out of the green foliage heavy with ripening apples, pears and plums. She was serene in fitted white silk, an apple-green ribbon tied at her waist, its long lengths trailing down on to her train underneath her three-quarter-length veil. Her arm was linked through the proud arm of her father, who winked at his son, suddenly so serious by Owen’s side.